Frankford. Your sister takes not after you, Sir Francis; All his wild blood your father spent on you: He got her in his age, when he grew civil: All his mad tricks were to his land entailed, And you are heir to all; your sister, she Hath to her dower her mother’s modesty. Sir Charles Mountford. Lord, sir, in what a happy state live you! This morning, which to many seems a burden Too heavy to bear, is unto you a pleasure. This lady is no clog, as many are: She doth become you like a well-made suit, In which the tailor hath used all his art; Not like a thick coat of unseasoned frieze, Forced on your back in summer. She’s no chain To tie your neck, and curb you to the yoke; But she’s a chain of gold to adorn your neck. You both adorn each other, and your hands, Methinks, are matches: there’s equality In this fair combination; you are both Scholars, both young, both being descended nobly. There’s music in this sympathy; it carries Consort, and expectation of much joy, Which God bestow on you, from this first day Until your dissolution; that’s for aye. Sir Francis Acton. We keep you here too long, good brother Frankford. Into the hall; away! go cheer your guests. What, bride and bridegroom both withdrawn at once? If you be missed, the guests will doubt their welcome, And charge you with unkindness. Frankford. To prevent it, I’ll leave you here, to see the dance within. Mistress Frankford. And so will I. [_Exeunt_ Frankford _and_ Mistress Frankford. Sir Francis Acton. To part you, it were sin. Now, gallants, while the town-musicians Finger their frets[1.03] within; and the mad lads And country-lasses, every mother’s child, With nosegays and bridelaces in their hats, Dance all their country measures, rounds, and jigs, What shall we do? Hark, they are all on the hoigh;[1.04] They toil like mill-horses, and turn as round,-- Marry, not on the toe. Ay, and they caper, Not without cutting; you shall see, to-morrow, The hall-floor pecked and dinted like a mill-stone, Made with their high shoes: though their skill be small, Yet they tread heavy where their hob-nails fall. Sir Charles Mountford. Well, leave them to their sports. Sir Francis Acton, I’ll make a match with you; meet to-morrow At Chevy-chase, I’ll fly my hawk with yours. Sir Francis Acton. For what? For what? Sir Charles Mountford. Why, for a hundred pound. Sir Francis Acton. Pawn me some gold of that. Sir Charles Mountford. Here are ten angels;[1.05] I’ll make them good a hundred pound to-morrow Upon my hawk’s wing. Sir Francis Acton. ’Tis a match, ’tis done. Another hundred pound upon your dogs; Dare ye, Sir Charles? Sir Charles Mountford. I dare: were I sure to lose, I durst do more than that: here is my hand, The first course for a hundred pound. Sir Francis Acton. A match.